Only
by Mirror of Melancholy
Summary: It's been three long years of silence since he left, and I'm starting to wonder if it'll ever be okay. MxM angsty oneshot.


Even as the clock struck midnight on what became December 5th, I was still awake. In fact, I was still in my clothes. For the past hour, since I had finally put down my DS, I had simply been sitting on my bed. I knew it was emo, it was unhealthy to wallow in my grief, but on the anniversary of the day _he_ left, there was nothing else I could do. I tossed a t-shirt onto the glowing alarm clock; I didn't need its light to see _his_ empty bed. The only light came from the stars through the window. I hadn't closed the shade, so I gazed out at them, looking for answers that weren't there.

I don't know who came up with all of these descriptions for a "broken heart," but I'm pretty sure they had no idea what they were talking about. You can't feel the shards on the inside of your chest, and it doesn't get ripped into pieces. For me, at least, it kind of disappeared. I couldn't feel it happening, preoccupied as I was at the time, but when I woke up the next morning, I couldn't feel my heart there anymore. My heart wasn't gone, sadly: I could still feel. It didn't matter how hard I breathed in, there was one spot that wouldn't fill with air, that felt empty. The people who describe it as a gaping hole, the edges slowly burning wider like corrosive acid, are much, much closer to the truth.

Sighing loudly, I pulled both of my socks off and wiggled my toes.

It drove me crazy to know that _he_ was out there somewhere. Whichever way I turned, I was either looking closer in his direction, or further. With every step I took, I got closer or moved farther away. Sometimes it wasn't just a vague feeling that _He's out there somewhere_, like it usually was. On nights like this, I was acutely and painfully aware that we were on the same plane of existence. That he could be standing underneath my window, or on the other side of the globe, and it wouldn't make a difference to me. That he had stood next to me and touched me and kissed me and hugged me and _existed_ with me. On nights like this, I remembered that he wasn't a dream. _He_ had been here, but now, he was gone. I slithered under the covers and put my goggles on the nightstand with another loud sigh, fighting tears.

I was never much of a manly-man, but I wasn't an emotional girl. Still, I cried almost every night. It would overwhelm me. All the signs of his presence, his bed, most of his clothes and all of his books, were still there. But no one slept in that bed, wore those clothes, read those books. The most important element was missing, and his absence was even louder than his presence. It was silent.

And no one was there to comfort me. I cried alone, always. When someone asked me if I was okay, I said I was fine. No one realized that I was lying. My behavior hadn't changed outside of our— my room. The only change that the rest of the House saw was a number. Three became One, because Near left too.

I tried not to dwell on my loneliness, but it was hard, because I'd neglected everything while he was there. My grades were now breaking records set by Near, Mel— him, A, and B, and I beat one game a day on average.

My life was hell, and I didn't even have a reason to push through. I didn't end it though, because he was still out there. As long as there was hope, I had to stay.

I woke up some time later to a scratching on the window. I didn't move a muscle, but looked up at the window, at the silhouette of a person. Outside my _third story window_. Looking closer, I noticed what looked like the top of a ladder peeking out of the bottom of the window. I also noticed that the silhouette was very, _very_ familiar.

I jumped up, mind racing.

_What could _he_ possibly be doing here? He said he wasn't coming back. He said that I would never see him again, that it was for the best. What reason could he possibly have for coming here, especially now, when Kira's more powerful than ever? What could… what could he want? _I threw open the window and helped him inside. _It doesn't matter now, he's here._

He stood there, illuminated by the stars, in all his golden glory. His beautiful face, his shining hair, his piercing eyes were all the same. The rest of his body was a different story, however. Dressed entirely in black leather, with laces over his crotch and the hem of his shirt barely reaching his belly button, frankly, he looked like a prostitute. The rosary was still there. His arms were thin with wiry muscles and had several more scars than the last time I saw them. Black gloves obscured his hands and black combat boots, came up to his knees. His skin was an unhealthy, sallow pale. To me, it was obvious that he hadn't been treating himself well.

He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I could barely speak. When he finally did, he whispered.

"Matt."

And with that single word, that one beautiful syllable slipping from his perfect lips, the silence that had haunted me for three years was broken. Despite the fact that he had broken my heart, despite the fact that I was so _angry_ at him, despite everything, I ran into his arms. I poured everything I had into that hug, all the pain and the hurt, all the loneliness and despair, all the anger and the desperation. I think he understood, because he hugged me back just as fiercely.

For the first time in years, I wasn't alone, and I knew everything was going to be okay.


End file.
